


Calamus

by foggynite



Series: Let It Burn [2]
Category: Was Tun Wenn's Brennt? | What To Do In Case Of Fire (2001)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, tim moves on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 04:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggynite/pseuds/foggynite
Summary: Tim learns to move on and finally sees what’s always been there.
Relationships: Maik/Tim (Was Tun Wenn's Brennt?), Terror/Nele (Was Tun Wenn's Brennt?)
Series: Let It Burn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211987





	Calamus

**Author's Note:**

> Written at some point between 2003 and 2005. I think. Don't quote me on that.
> 
> Original Notes: Title inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” and means unchanging, or in something’s original state. WTDICOF belongs to Gregor Schnitzier and Columbia Pictures. The “deviant behavior” snippet in the opening just begged for a fic, and led to this.

It’s hard to be an anarchist when you want stability more than anything else. 

When all you want is to be told that this is how things are, this is how things aren’t going to change, and that, if you wish hard enough, your dreams will come true.

But Tim doesn’t dream anymore.

Manchow Street is torn down now, developers rushing in, and Hotte is living with Terror until he finishes his internet courses, or Terror can get Nele to marry him. Hotte is convinced he can start a new revolution over the internet, that he can do the most good as an anonymous voice over electrical waves. It was hard for him to march in a wheelchair anyway, memories weighing him down. Nele is just trying to survive single-motherhood.

And that leaves Tim to… drift. With no Hotte to take care of, he really has nothing to do with his days. No excuse to avoid his own life anymore. 

Mostly he crashes at Terror’s with Hotte, delights in rearranging the guest bathroom again and again because it sends his obsessive-compulsive host into fits. Sometimes he stays at Nele’s, baby-sits for her while she’s at work. 

He wanders the city mostly, staring at everything new and old and repaired and broken, wants a camera to capture it, to immortalize the decay. But all of his cameras and films were lost when he left Manchow. Everything was lost.

He isn’t stupid, though. He understands now what he couldn’t, wouldn’t, before—The world has moved beyond him. It’s changed while he was waiting for it to return to the way he wanted, but it’s never going to do that. It can’t. Even after he is left alone, like Peter Pan after all the lost boys found their ways home.

Flo didn’t send the wedding pictures to him. She isn’t that cruel. But she sent them to Terror and Hotte and Maik and Nele, so he has had a dozen opportunities to stare at them. Hotte caught him at it, just staring unblinking, so engrossed that he didn’t hear the creak of the wheelchair until Hotte was touching his arm, warm hand on the back of his neck like Tim used to do for him when the reality of his disability got to be too much.

And this reality is almost too much. He just wants to get drunk now, and forget that he ever knew her, because he had hoped, for twelve years, he had hoped that she would come back. But she was too busy living without him, too.

“Hotte, pass me another pita…”

They are gathered at Nele’s comfortable apartment, Terror and Hotte and Maik and Tim. The kids are in bed and there’s a really terrible movie on the television, but with enough beer it should be all right.

Nele and Hotte have been exchanging concerned glances over Tim’s head, he can feel it. They must have said something to Maik to get him to come over, because the ad exec doesn’t willingly associate with them if he can help it. And Terror has an early court appearance in the morning, so this little get together must be for Tim’s benefit.

Getting up to use the bathroom, he listens to their whispers as he leaves. Nothing malicious, just drunken giggles over the movie, but he knows what the subject will be until he returns.

He stares at himself in the plain bathroom mirror. He wonders if there are more wrinkles on his face, or if he’s just imagining things. He thinks of Hotte’s thinning hair, Terror’s tired eyes. The frown lines around Nele’s mouth that are slowly fading. He smirks at the thought of Maik’s receding hairline. They’re all growing older, and he’s beginning to think that it’s okay.

A burst of laughter from the living room, quickly shushed lest they wake the kids, and Maik’s playing the clown, center of attention as always. Tim gives his reflection a half-hearted sneer and returns to the living room, easing onto the floor in front of the couch. The movie hasn’t gotten any better.

“So.” Hotte is smiling from his chair. His mischievous ‘I’m about to pull off something really fucking great’ smile.

“So.” Tim responds, twisting to look at the rest of them with an upraised eyebrow.

Nele smiles, too, at the conspiratorial wink Hotte sends her. “Your birthday was this week.”

Tim keeps looking at them. Terror shifts nervously from the other side of Nele. Maik is sprawled across the only other chair in the room, looking bored, but Tim can see the gleam of excitement in his eyes.

His eyes narrow suspiciously as he waits for them to spit it out. If they’re taking this much time, it means they’ve probably done something they think he’s going to be pissed about.

“Yes, it was.” He finally responds when no other explanation is forthcoming. He hasn’t celebrated a birthday in years, except for maybe a shared bottle of something hard with Hotte.

Maik gives a bark of laughter and Tim glares at him. The ad exec’s answering expression is part insolence, part affection. That is the way things usually stand between them.

“What they’re trying to say is that we’ve gotten you a present to celebrate the fact that you’re old.”

Tim blinks at Maik. Debates throwing the empty can of beer at his head, but that might make a mess for Nele, and he has to admit, he is curious to see this present after all the fuss.

His attention switches back to Hotte, who pulls a perfectly wrapped package from behind his chair. He glances at the other three before accepting the package from Hotte’s outstretched hand.

The paper is thick, embossed. The box revealed after he tears the tape away is unmarked and obviously expensive. There’s a flutter in his stomach.

Tucked in the blue felt lining is a Nikon digital camera. This side of expensive and kind of funny since he doesn’t have his own computer.

He doesn’t know what to say. Sits there staring at the camera, traces the plastic casing of it with his finger. Brand new and imported and expensive. He doesn’t want to think of Nele and Hotte putting money towards something so frivolous, just for him. But the sentiment behind it—that makes him feel good. For the first time in twelve years, he feels like he has a family again.

“I—“ He stops, collects his thoughts before he says something stupid. “Thank you.”

He takes a moment to look at each of them, actually smiling, and the answering expressions are brighter than any camera flash.

“Hotte was the one who really pushed for it,” Maik says, breaking the suspiciously sentimental moment. “I wanted to get you a blow-up doll since that would be more useful…”

Tim laughs with the rest of them and knows whose idea it all was. A glance at Hotte and his suspicions are confirmed. His friend is wearing a secretive smile and motioning to Maik with his eyebrows, but Tim can only roll his eyes in response, lest his friends be encouraged.

“Well, I need more beer!” Hotte exclaims, wheeling towards the kitchen and not subtle at all.

Nele stands up, followed quickly by Terror. “I should probably start on the dishes, too. Robert….”

“Oh. Right. I’ll just help you with that…”

Then Tim and Maik are oh-so-not-obviously alone, and Tim takes out the instruction booklet, idly flipping through page after page of English. A creak of the chair as Maik sits up, the brush of his knee against Tim’s shoulder as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“They didn’t have a manual available in German, so we figured I could translate if you need any help.” Said with Maik’s typical arrogance, so Tim just shrugs.

“It seems a bit self-explanatory…” He suppresses a grin at Maik’s frustrated snort.

“So…” Maik starts, after a moment of Tim pretending to study the booklet’s diagrams.

“So.” Tim smiles.

“What’ve you been doing in that rat hole to celebrate birthdays?”

“Usually? Get shit-faced.”

Maik laughs, as he was supposed to, and smirks. “And this year?”

Tim pauses. “Nothing, to be honest.”

Maik snorts. “Well, we can’t have that. We can still get shit-faced this year, if you’d like. I know it wouldn’t be up to Manchow Street standards, but…”

A month ago, Tim would have taken offense to Maik’s tone when he speaks of Manchow Street, but Tim realizes now that there’s a bit of wistfulness still in there, hidden under all of Maik’s layers of bullshit that get him through the day. It helps to know he isn’t the only one who misses it.

“Yeah.”

And that’s all that’s said for a while. Tim fiddles with his new toy, pushing buttons and referring to the manual. Maik continues to lean forward, and Tim is acutely aware of the heat seeping into his side from the ad exec’s leg. Maik’s face is near enough to his head that the other man could rest his chin on top of Tim’s hair, his breath is that close.

Tim doesn’t know what they’re doing, really. It’s an old dance, only this time Flo isn’t there as a buffer between them. Buffer, liaison, excuse. There were days when he would wake up tangled in Maik’s legs and Flo would be gone already. 

But where Maik looked to him, Tim only had eyes for His Flo. His narrow vision cost more than just her.

There’s a memory card tucked in the box and he fools around with it for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to get it out of the plastic case. Maik plucks it from his hands before he can resort to his teeth or a knife, and easily pops the damn thing out, offering it to Tim with a self-satisfied grin. Tim ignores him and gets the camera ready, zooming in on the child’s drawing tacked to the wall in front of him.

“Terror has a computer at his place,” Maik breaks the silence. “Or you can use mine. I’ve got all the manip software.”

“Let’s see if I can use this thing first,” Tim answers by not answering, and tries not to think about going to Maik’s place. He hasn’t seen it yet, although everyone else has, and he knows he’ll have something to say about Maik’s posh new life when he does.

Maik doesn’t seem put off by his not-response, though, and picks up the instruction manual, flipping through it. “The little button-thing will change the shot….”

There’s, like, fifty button-things on it. “You’re so helpful…”

They’re playing with the lighting effects when Hotte wheels back in, six pack of cheap beer on his lap. Maik’s still translating the instructions, so Tim is the only one to notice the smirk on the older man’s face. He frowns at him.

“Figured you guys would need brain food if you’re tackling English,” Hotte says and chucks a can of beer at Maik’s bowed head. 

Tim catches it in one hand without thinking, easily snatching the one sent at his own head with his free hand.

Hotte snickers and Tim just taps the tops, opens a can, passing it to Maik before opening the other. Maik doesn’t look up while accepting it and flicking Hotte off at the same time. The paraplegic laughs uproariously and spins away, calling out to Nele and Terror that Maik just propositioned him.

As Maik finally looks up at that declaration, glaring and ready to argue, Tim sits back and observes his friends. The five of them together and Flo’s shadow doesn’t seem to matter that much anymore. She’s moved on, away from them, while they’ve all moved closer again.

He tries not to think about how right it feels.

~~~

He gets Maik’s address from Hotte, taking much shit for it, and now he’s standing outside a very posh apartment in a very posh section of the city with a posh doorman and posh elevator, and he’s trying not to feel like pond scum, even though that’s what everyone who’s looked at him since he entered the building seems to be thinking. 

He’s clean shaven, in decent clothes (well, for him…) and decidedly lacking grime, yet the doorman almost calls the cops on him. If it wasn’t for the fact that he really wanted to print his pictures, he wouldn’t even be here.

Well, it was entertaining to see the old people cower in the corner of the elevator farthest from him.

So he rings Maik’s fancy-looking doorbell, but can’t hear it on the other side of the door and wonders if it’s broken. As that’s unlikely, he just leans on it in the hopes of pissing Maik off. 

Works like a charm.

Scowling, Maik jerks open the door, cellphone glued to his ear. Tim smiles innocently and stops pushing the button, but Maik doesn’t stop glaring as Tim walks past him.

Waving Tim towards what he assumes is the living room, Maik returns to his conversation. “No, I’m not dead. It’s just a very annoying asshole—Yes, I want the black layout. I like the black. The black is classic, and so help me, if you put anything remotely pink-hued near it—“

Tim tunes him out and drops his satchel from his shoulder onto the couch. The place is predictably monochromatic, with splashes of red high-lighting the mantle and random items around the room. It’s a nice place, he has to admit. Two story ceiling in the living room, loft for what he assumes is the bedroom. Big windows, lots of natural light. What he can see of the kitchen is a blinding flash of chrome.

He promised himself before he came up that he would in no way use the phrases “Sell out,” “Capitalist pussy,” or “Fucking asshole” in relation to Maik and the way he chooses to live, but Tim has the feeling that at least the last one will be difficult to avoid. 

He’s afraid to sit on the over-stuffed black leather couch, so he turns to the huge entertainment system taking up an entire wall and starts flipping through CD titles. Some of them are bands he recognizes, most of them are crap.

The threats finally stop behind him, and he watches with amusement as Maik viciously stabs the panel of his cellphone.

“Fucking hippy photographers who don’t know shit about shit trying to tell me pastels are the big market seller now. Like I want what’s big. I built an entire company on the concept of anti-big!”

Remaining quiet, Tim just quirks an eyebrow. Maik focuses the frown on him again.

“And what the hell are you doing here?”

“Terror’s computer doesn’t have enough space for all the software I want…”

“Okay.” All animosity forgotten, Maik waves for him to follow. 

Tim shrugs to himself, used to the mercurial moods, and grabs his satchel before heading up the stairs, ignoring the fact that he was right—the loft is the bedroom.

Unsurprisingly, all of Maik’s high-tech gadgets are within reach of the bed, and Tim awkwardly perches on the edge of the king-size monstrosity. Maik laughs from the computer desk as the mattress turns out to actually be a waterbed, sucking Tim in.

After a few minutes of acting like he meant to do that, Tim breaks.

“Will you knock it the fuck off and come help me up?”

Clicking around with the computer mouse, Maik pretends not to hear him. Tim really doesn’t want to flop around like a fish, so he just lays where he is, listening to Maik set up the equipment for him.

“So, where have you been going?” Maik asks conversationally.

“Just wandering.”

“Hmm.” A few more clicks, some tapping on the keyboard. 

Tim cranes his neck, trying to see the monitor, but all he can see is Maik’s big fat head. Finally, Maik turns to look at him, lit cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth.

“Where’s your gear?”

Tim pats the satchel resting next to him.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Maik gets up from the cushy computer chair, heading towards the door, and Tim knows he’s being teased. Maik wants him to ask for help again, and he utterly refuses to open his mouth. The other man leaves with one last smirk, and Tim flips him off as he goes. Listening to the footsteps echo down the stairs, he waits until he’s sure Maik’s gone before floundering to sit up.

Five hours later, he’s still playing with the software accessories when Maik saunters in with his laptop.

“Mind if I…?” Maik motions at the computer and Tim pushes away from the desk, stretching until his spine pops. The other man brushes past him to settle into his vacated seat and Tim tries not to jerk away from the contact.

Staring at the image Tim’s been playing with, Maik murmurs, “Still got the touch, I see,” before minimizing it and networking the laptop to the PC.

Working the fatigue from his limbs, Tim studies the room around him. There’s a silver framed picture on the nightstand that he had wondered about briefly, and now he picks it up, looking closer. Maik sneering at the camera while standing next to a smiling older man. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was happy.

“My pop,” Maik says stiltedly. 

Tim glances back, takes in the casual pose as Maik lounges in the rolling chair. His eyes, though, aren’t casual at all.

“I thought he-”

“He did. When he heard around town that I was making something of myself, he showed up on my door again. Apparently, I’m worthy of being seen with now.”

Yeah, the bitterness is still there. That caustic anger Maik had always had in his voice when speaking of his only surviving relative. Tim’s surprised he gave the old man a minute of his time, let alone kept a picture of them together. It must have shown on his face, because Maik laughs.

“Hey, it’s good PR.” He waves it off and Tim knows that’s not it, not displayed up here, but he nods and gently replaces the frame.

When Maik stifles a yawn, he notices that it’s past one in the morning. “I should go.”

With a regal wave, Maik says, “It’s late. Why don’t you crash here?”

“Your couch scares me.”

“So we can share the bed. It’s huge.”

Just like old times. Only Tim really doesn’t want to do that, but the thought of heading back to Terror’s in the middle of the freezing September night doesn’t appeal to him either. 

Besides, there’s a challenge in Maik’s tone, daring Tim to make a big deal out of it, so Tim just shrugs and moves to collect his equipment.

“Eh. Leave it till morning.”

“Alright.”

After stripping down to his boxers while Maik’s in the bathroom, Tim perches on the frame of the bed and stares at the lines on his fingers. He’s thirty-three now.

The water in the bathroom shuts off and Maik appears in the doorway wearing black pajama bottoms and nothing else. Tim stands up, feeling a little awkward, but not really, because this is something they’ve done before, a lifetime ago. With Flo. There are no smirks or jokes from Maik, which means he’s feeling it, too.

They slide under the sheets wordlessly. Maik stretches to turn off the light and Tim pretends he’s ignoring the displayed muscles. Laying in the dark, they both stare at the ceiling. After five minutes, Maik snorts and rolls onto his side, rocking the entire mattress.

“If you start snoring, I swear I’ll beat you with my shoe.”

Tim laughs and relaxes into the waterbed. He listens to Maik’s steady breathing for a few more minutes, random thoughts going through his head, then finally drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up tangled in Maik’s long legs and arms, it’s almost like the twelve years have never passed. Maik still uses the same cheap shampoo, which is odd since everything else about him is expensive now, and Tim keeps his eyes closed a moment longer, just breathing in the old familiar scent of sweat and musk and Maik.

He lazes for a while, happy enough with the warmth of Maik’s skin, until the alarm starts screeching and Maik rolls away to slam it off with a grumbled curse. Cracking his eyes open, Tim realizes the room’s pitch black but decides to get up anyway. Maik wakes completely when Tim shifts the bed, and the sudden light is blinding.

They don’t speak, just grunt and go about their business. Tim pulls on his clothes before trading Maik for the bathroom. When he comes out, the bedroom’s empty so he gathers his bag together and heads downstairs. He follows the smell of coffee blindly.

Maik’s on his cell phone in the kitchen, dumping sugar straight from the bag into a travel mug. Apparently, he’s going over his schedule with his assistant, because he keeps groaning and snarling things like, “Hell if I’ll talk to them,” at odd intervals.

Tim opens a few cabinets before finding the mugs and helps himself to the coffee pot. The odd scent of the coffee hits him a second before the flavor, and he spits it back into the mug with a grimace. Trust Maik to have some fruity crap. His dark-haired friend is laughing hilariously, holding the phone away from his head. Tim glares and pointedly dumps the mug in the sink.

Regaining enough control to finish his conversation, Maik tosses his cellphone next to his briefcase and offers absently, “There’s bottled water in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” Tim drawls and goes over to root through the fridge.

“So,” Maik says with a yawn. “What’re your plans for tomorrow?”

It takes Tim a second to process what he’s talking about, and then he shrugs. “Hotte was talking about some new club.”

“Cool. Let me know the details. I’ll keep the time free.”

Tim nods casually, like he’s not actually happy that Maik’s making the time. But Maik’s smiling slyly around the mouth of his travel mug and Tim has to grin back. When Maik offers to drop him off at Nele’s, he agrees.

The club Hotte chooses is grungy and full of punk music and dimly lit. Tim couldn’t be happier. They got in easily when Hotte wheeled up to the doorman, and now Maik is pressed to Tim’s back in the crush of people. The first place they visit is the bar for some hard liquor, getting seconds and a couple beers before they look for a table on the outskirts of the dance pit.

There’s a live band howling on stage and people moshing, so Hotte parks himself at a table and shoos them away. Tim assumes that he lip-read Hotte correctly when the older man said he’d be fine on his own. Nele couldn’t find a babysitter since her usual one was sick, so she and Robert are at home (Tim’s fairly certain Terror would have panicked and fled at the sight of the mob anyway).

The floor is crowded with people who are way younger than them, but there’s a few old timers going crazy, too, so they don’t feel as out of place. They dance until there’s sweat dripping down their backs and Tim mirrors Maik’s psychotic grin. The bass reverberates in their chests, vibrating up their legs from the floor. Tim’s knees are delightfully sore, his chest is heaving, and he reluctantly follows Maik when he motions back to the table.

Hotte is chatting up a heavily pierced girl, tapping his hand to the beat and sipping his beer. The girl is leaning over a table divider, looking interested in some anti-system spiel Hotte’s giving her, so Tim and Maik don’t interrupt.

Maik leans in close to Tim’s ear, his breath warm on Tim’s flushed neck and his hand landing on the small of Tim’s back right above the line of his leather pants. He shouts something about taking a piss. When he pulls away, his fingers slide through the cooling sweat on Tim’s skin, and the blonde hopes Maik isn’t looking as he shivers. It’s tempting to tell Maik to just drop Hotte off at Terror’s and head back to his place, but he knows he won’t. He can’t.

Thirty-three years old and some days he thinks he hasn’t learned anything.

~~~

He’s at Nele’s babysitting Melli and the baby when the phone rings. He’s in the middle of cooking lunch, so he juggles Damian to the other hip and asks Melli to turn down the television before picking up.

“Nele Uhl’s residence, Tim speaking.”

“Do you wear the maid’s skirt, too?” Maik drawls. 

The sounds of his office staff are in the background and Tim frowns.

“Fu--” Melli’s watching him with bright eyes. “Bugger off, Maik. I’ve got things to do. What do you want?”

Maik gives a bark of laughter at the quick save, but then his voice turns serious. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Really.” Tim tries to sound unimpressed, but he’s actually just confused.

“You remember me mentioning that photographer last week? The one who thinks pastels are appropriate camera-fodder?”

He recalls his visit to Maik’s. “Yeah. What of him?”

“Well, I just cancelled his contract. Creative differences, and all.”

“Okay.” His tone is impatient. Lunch is starting to burn on the stove and he’s juggling the phone, the kid and the pot all at once. His already considerable respect for Nele increases. “And I care because?”

“You remember that picture of the crumbly building you were playing with last week?” Maik’s voice is oozing charm.

Tim catches on as the pot catches fire. 

“I don’t work for free, plus I charge asshole tax,” he says as he plunges the pot into the dirty dishwater.

There’s relief in Maik’s laugh this time. “Watch the language or Nele’ll take out your kneecaps.”

“Whatever,” he says, but does wince at the slip. At his glance, Melli tries to look innocent in the doorway. He hurries to open a window before the fire alarm starts.

“And of course, I fully intend to pay you,” Maik says belatedly. 

Tim smiles. “Of course. What kind of shots are you looking for and by when?”

“Well, I was wondering if I could take another look at that building one…” Maik prevaricates, close to sheepish and Tim’s eyes narrow.

“When did you need it by?” He demands again.

“Um,” and now Maik is uncomfortable. “Today?”

Tim stares at the murky remains of their lunch while Melli giggles at his elbow and Damian tries to stick his finger in Tim’s ear.

“I’ve got all my stuff with me. You show up here in less than half an hour with something edible and I’ll cut you a deal.”

“Consider it done.”

Maik arrives in exactly twenty-six minutes with kid-friendly pasta, deli sandwiches, potato chips, and a smug grin that has a desperate edge to it. He brandishes his laptop after handing the deli bag to Melli.

“It’s freezing in here. Why are the windows open?” He sniffs. “What’s that smell?”

Tim presents his camera and a memory stick with a glare. “It’s all on there.”

“Great. I can offer you what I was offering that-- jerk.” Maik smiles at Melli, who just gives him a calculating look and tears another hunk off her sandwich.

Tim rolls his eyes and wipes down Damian’s hands before the toddler starts picking at the pasta. “Why’d you sign on ‘that jerk’ if he wouldn’t deliver what you wanted?”

Setting his gear up, Maik grimaces and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Honestly? I was trying to get in with his sister’s printing company, maybe get a deal.”

The urge to shove a backfired plan in Maik’s face is an old habit, but Tim refrains because he really doesn’t want to start an argument. 

But he can’t help adding, “Pastels?”

“Shut up. Let’s get to work.”

Before Tim can respond, Melli looks up from her sandwich and sniffs. “You forgot the pickles.”

Tim laughs as Maik mock glares at the six-year-old.

~~~

The waif-like assistant turns a look of studied ennui on him as he approaches. He just leans on the desk and says, “Maik’s expecting me.”

Without speaking, she nods and gestures for him to go back. She’s never quite forgiven him for barging in that first visit.

Maik and his team of sycophants are gathered around the conference table, poring over the spreads in front of them. There’s a thunderous expression on Maik’s face, which Tim remembers as his standard creative look. He’s unprepared for the outburst when Maik notices his entrance.

“Ah, finally!” Maik shouts and flails his arms. “Someone else with a sense of style! Tim, tell these fools what utter crap this is!”

The drawing board thrown at his head is for the same jewelry store his last picture was used on. Someone had sketched in a water fountain and a spray of diamond rings from the top of it, loosely scribbling the store’s slogan along the fountain’s edge. Maik’s right; it’s crap. Tim tries to keep his expression neutral.

“This is what you called me over for?”

Maik rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I’m inconveniencing you, seeing as your social life is so busy.”

Tim just flips him off, leaving Maik’s traumatized staff debating on whether to cringe or snicker. Maik just snorts, though, and the tension in the room level noticeably drops.

“They liked our last ad,” Maik explains. “And I would like to keep my client, which seems unlikely with the shit that’s been coming across my desk. So. Feel like playing?”

The words bring back memories. Maik with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, watching the smoke plumes and spitting out anti-establishment anthems. Wearing his Cheshire-cat grin and turning to Tim, the visual artist, with a “Feel like playing?” Some of their best work-- and best sex-- had come from that challenge.

“Sure,” Tim answers with a quirked brow, and tosses his bag on the table while grabbing the quickly vacated chair next to Maik.

~~~

He agrees easily when Hotte suggests they take the kids to the park. His camera’s out and capturing shots as Hotte catches Tim up on his course work. 

Tim has put some of his commission money towards buying an old Nikon, like he had before, and it feels good to work with actual film instead of computer chips.

The snow’s added another dimension to the lighting, but Tim’s happy with what he’s getting. Melli’s helping Damian walk, which is near impossible for the toddler, given how bundled up he is. Their smiles are dazzling in the sunshine.

“Are you listening, man?” Hotte finally demands. 

Tim turns the camera on his best friend and nods as he snaps off a few shots. The expression on Hotte’s face is one of irritation, but it fades to his usual joviality soon enough.

“You’re really getting back into all this photography stuff, huh?”

Tim grins and lets the camera drop. “I think I forgot how much I loved it.”

“Yeah. You look good, Timmy.”

There is wistfulness in Hotte’s tone, and Tim studies him carefully, searching for the familiar signs of depression. Instead, he just finds a vague fatigue. Before he can ask after Hotte’s health, the paraplegic leers at him and effectively changes the subject.

“So, you and Maik are working together, I hear.”

Tim shrugs. “Just a few ads. Nothing big. Feels nice to get paid, though.”

“Right.” Hotte stares at him until he returns to taking pictures of the children. His friend sighs, taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I just wish…”

Tensing, Tim continues photographing as Melli guides Damian back towards them. “What?”

“He’s an asshole, but I remember the way you guys used to carry on.” A sideways glance shows that Hotte has a nostalgic grin on his face. “When the two of you got an idea going, it would take off, and the rest of us were left eating dust. You were the heart and brains of Group 36. Sometimes I felt like we were just supporting cast, y’know? Your foot soldiers.”

The camera slowly lowers, and Tim’s eyes are unfocused as he stands perfectly still. “We—I never knew you felt like that…”

Hotte chuckles, a little bitter, a little fond. “You’re not known for your observational skills, my friend. But we never minded. At least, I didn’t. You guys gave some order to the chaos. Gave us something to believe in. Sometimes I thought…”

“Yeah?” Tim prompts, his voice hoarse.

“Maybe you missed that, missed Maik, as much as you missed _her_.”

Three months ago, that statement would have had him raging and punching walls and throwing things. But maybe he has learned something in his thirty-three years, because he finds himself mulling it over, acknowledging some of the truth in there.

“It’s nice to have a purpose,” Hotte says quietly, and Tim nods, because that basically summarizes his feelings.

“Yeah.”

Melli wanders up with Damian in tow, complaining about his excessively runny nose and how it might be catching, so Tim scoops the toddler up and lets Melli run off to the swing set.

“So how are your courses going?” He asks Hotte, smiling when the other man laughs, and realizes that Hotte had been telling him the answer for a good fifteen minutes earlier.

“Good, man. Good. Feels nice to use my brain, you know? All this computer stuff is fun. I’m thinking about going into programming. That’s something I can do from home, if I have to.”

Tim nods as he wipes Damian’s nose, and gives Hotte his I-just-thought-of-something-fucking-great grin.

“You know, I’ve been doing some free-lance work, besides the whole _Anarchy!_ thing with Maik,” he says conversationally.

“Really?” Hotte perks up. “You never mentioned that…”

Tim shrugs. “Not much to say. Just a local lit mag and a caption buried in a small-distribution paper. But, I’ve been saving up my pay. Probably have enough for an apartment.”

Hotte’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, only thing is, I probably can’t make the rent on my own without a steady gig…”

The grin on Hotte’s face is so wide, his eyes are lost in the laugh lines of his cheeks. “Funny, I was thinking about getting a place of my own, too. Maybe in one of those subsidized buildings, cheat the government out of more money.”

“We should look into it.”

“Yeah.”

Tim calls Melli back for lunch with a smile.

~~~

He’s overcome his fear of Maik’s couch. 

It took him a few weeks, but he finally sat on the thing and didn’t horribly mess it up or get eaten alive or have it walk away mooing underneath him. He’s lounging on one side, watching a promo video the A/V guys at _Anarchy!_ compiled for a new client, and he’s trying really hard not to fall asleep. If he watches one more shot of a traffic jam, he’ll weep openly.

Maik returns from foraging in the kitchen with beer, and Tim moves his feet so the ad exec can sit, promptly placing them back on Maik’s lap once the other is comfortable. Raising an eyebrow, Maik flicks at his sock-clad toes, but lets them stay there, and passes him a beer.

“Are you in a coma yet?” Maik asks expectantly after a moment. “Because we had to resuscitate two of my video people this afternoon.”

“If you knew it was shit, why are you showing it to me?” Tim doesn’t have to feign annoyance, the video is that bad.

“Well, I was hoping you might see something redeeming in it.”

“How has your company survived this long?”

“Most of my waking hours go into fixing my crew’s fuck-ups and designing shit myself.” Maik answers seriously. For once he isn’t bragging. He merely looks resigned and exhausted. “It’s part of the reason the firm’s still small—Excuse me, ‘exclusive.’”

Tim arches an eyebrow.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m a very successful man. I just have a limited-- if not very loyal and extremely happy—clientele. People come to me when they want unique but quality work and are willing to pay exorbitant prices for it.”

Sighing, Tim rubs his forehead and nods so Maik will get off the defensive. Subsiding, Maik mirrors one of Tim’s shrugs, his voice low.

“I’ve had to work for my inspiration, Tim. I’ve got a great staff, but nobody I really click with. They know what the current market says is in; I know what actually looks cool. Sometimes they just don’t get it.”

Tim thinks on his afternoon in the park with Hotte the week before, and he knows where Maik’s coming from. 

“Things changed so fast after Hotte was injured. I didn’t want to admit that it was an end to everything. Flo, the group, you…”

Following his train of thought, Maik gives a self-deprecating snort. “I’ve always been good at looking out for myself first. I just assumed that since I was moving on, everyone else was, too.”

Tim grunts in agreement and his own self-derision, taking a swallow of beer and staring at the awful cinematography on the TV. 

Life’s all about learning from your mistakes, and seizing opportunities when they arise. He’s decided this in the past week, and he’s also decided that he believes in second chances. The era might have ended long ago, but they’re together again, all of them, save Flo.

“We’ve still got it,” he murmurs, and Maik looks at him questioning. Tim smiles at him and says again, “We’ve still got it. You and me. The team thing.”

Maik grins, a genuine smile this time, and finishes off his beer. “Yeah, we do.”

They watch the video in silence after that, at least until Tim finds his hands unconsciously reaching for the remote and turning it off.

“The shots aren’t all that bad,” he offers Maik. “Your editor needs to be beaten, though.”

“Eh, he’s new. He’s got potential, though. He brought in this really edgy piece to his interview, but since then he’s been playing it safe.” Maiks smirks over at him. “I just need to get him to loosen up. I’ve been told he lives in fear of me.”

“With that face, I’m surprised you have a staff left…” Tim says through a yawn.

Maik rolls his eyes. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Hey, man, I’m tired.” He lays his head against the back of the couch, not wanting to move.

“You can crash here…” The offer’s the same as a few weeks ago, but Tim can hear the difference in it. Everything that’s being left unsaid and offered and reassured. He wiggles his toes in Maik’s lap, and smiles.

“I’d like that.”

And this time when he wakes up in Maik’s bed, he doesn’t just lay still in the dark. 

Reaching out, his hand follows the curve of Maik’s hip, the dip of his stomach, and he smiles into Maik’s mouth as the other man arches up to meet him, only half-awake but so responsive to Tim’s touch.

When the alarm screeches, Maik slaps it off with a curse, and they don’t get out of bed.

~~~

Tim wanders down the hallway and smiles at Maik’s waif-like assistant, Johanna.

“He’s just finishing up his teleconference, sir, but he said to send you in when you arrived.” Her smile softens the sharp lines of her face and Tim thanks her before heading into Maik’s personal domain. 

The staff has gotten used to seeing the scruffy “creative consultant” at all hours of the day, and most welcome his arrival since it usually means Maik will take a break from his tyrannical ways. The exec has even cut back on the amount of Tums he eats daily.

The teleconference must not be going well, since Maik’s hair is in fifty directions at once, but that could also be due to Maik’s natural dramatics. Tim places the portfolio with his latest spreads on the table and slumps in the chair across from Maik. 

The exec gives him an absent smile in greeting and continues to snarl at the person on the other end on the phone. It’s a routine Tim has become familiar with over the past few weeks and it’s about the only disadvantage to crashing at Maik’s nearly every night. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he and Hotte move into their new apartment.

He distracts himself by studying Maik’s hands and thinking of what they can do once Maik wraps things up for the night. The maid was at Maik’s today, too, so they don’t even have to stop for food since she stocked the pantry. It’s still a life Tim’s ambivalent on, the excess and luxury.

“—get the notes on the Apperson commission?”

He realizes Maik’s addressing him now, and blinks. Maik smirks and nudges his ankle under the table with his sock-clad foot, repeating his question. “The American shoe company notes? Did Johanna send you a copy of--”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. I got that. I emailed you what I thought of it, too.”

“How bad?”

Tim shrugs. “I didn’t bang my head on the wall.”

“Good.”

“Just the desk.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Let me know when they make up their mind.”

“I wish they’d let me know.”

Maik’s foot is steadily climbing up his jeans the entire conversation, and Tim glances at the clock. It’s late, so he pushes away from the table, much to Maik’s disappointment. The disappointment fades, though, when Tim comes around to lean a hip against the table next to Maik, and the other man slips on his shoes, shutting down his laptop.

“You ready to call it a night?” Tim asks, his own smirk firmly in place.

Maik leers back, standing up so that he is only inches away from him. “I think I can be persuaded.”

Pulling at the front of Maik’s designer shirt, Tim closes the gap between them and plunders the other man’s mouth. He doesn’t break away until Maik is flushed and gasping.

“That would certainly be an incentive,” Maik comments with a smile.

“So hurry your lazy ass up.”

“You talk so sweet to me.”

Tim rolls his eyes and pushes Maik towards the door.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://jrocci.tumblr.com/)


End file.
